Antiquity's End
by Vixen2004
Summary: After recieving Fran's untimely death sentence, Balthier sets out on a last minute quest to obtain the curative items needed to restore her health. But even leading men can't work alone, for then who do they have to lead? [Fran X Balthier X Ashe]
1. Chapter 1

_Antiquity's End_

o-o-o-o-o-o

Chapter One

o-o-o-o-o-o

Her skin is the shade of buttermilk caramel and Balthier knows this is wrong—oh so very, very wrong—because it is usually the tint of warm cocoa. He figures he has a divine right to hold this discernment; after all, he has only been staring at her for the last six years.

And as her chest rises and falls, each breath drawn in with great effort and deliberate determination, he is also able to note her lips are the wrong color, too. They are chapped like burnt cappuccino, and he is the only one capable of making this analogy because he is the only one alive who has ever experienced the beverage.

('Father, what on tarnation could you possibly be doing now?' 'Why, I have created a new drink my lad! Cappuccinos! Mark my words, boy, they'll be selling this stuff in every tavern all over Ivalice in the months to come!' 'Father, that is preposterous. It has the appearance of bodily excrements; it will never catch on.')

And it never did.

Balthier sometimes wonders, had his father's beverage been a success, if he would not have turned to Nethecite in the years after.

Imagine. Sanity abandoned all because of one too many failed experiments and a lack of interest in caffeinated beverages.

He tries not to ponder such things.

"Fran," he partitions, barely audible for he can not tell if she is sleeping. "Fran, my dear." One eye opens ever so slightly, a hint of ruby red spilling forth in the flickering candle light, and the sky pirate kneels down next to his comrade's cot of lush foliage and straw.

"I will be disembarking soon, but I will come back, love, you have my word."

Fran parts her lips and tries to get something out, but Balthier quiets her with the aid of a finger.

"Shh, hush now. That's an order."

Her one eye glares vehemently.

It would have been amusing had she not been dying.

"You are safe here. Just sleep and rest and I will return soon."

More vitriolic glares.

Then nothing.

She has returned from the realm whence she came. This relieves Balthier somewhat, for he knows slumber is the only place where the ill viera can find solace.

"Just listen to the Spirit of the Wood...or whatever nonsense your deranged sisters expel at all hours of the day."

Fran's nose scrunches up disdainfully, and Balthier is sure she would have cuffed him had she the strength.

"Try not to die while I am gone, understood? That is an order as well."

Fran's breath—while shallow—is steady and rythmatic, and Balthier knows she has fallen asleep once again.

He leaves the humid room silently, drawing the pelted flap over the entryway leading into the hallowed out quarter situated in the musky confines of an ancient tree trunk.

Amusing, it is, that for a man who possesses a silver tongue and spills forth formal vernacular like warm marmalade and maple syrup, he can find scarcely little to talk about while conversing with the dead. He handles it better than most males, of this he is certain, but even his carefully constructed walls can not hold out the rank stench of death. It lingers and it hovers and it looms on the distant horizon, just out of his grasp, elusive and ethereal, and he knows the delicate balance of life rests squarely on his shoulders.

It is a daunting task to say the least.

He passes Jote in his hasty departure, all short breaths and flushed skin and a flurry of wind tossed cloth, and seethes accordingly.

"I meant what I said," he warns, his voice deeper and more impending than he can ever recall it being. "Take care of her or my Altair will find permanent residency in your rectum."

Jote does not flinch. She has never flinched.

"This is not our way."

Balthier pauses at that, and turns to increase his proximity, probably stepping the closest to a Viera any man has ever had the pleasure of experiencing.

"_Make_ it your way," he threatens, planting the barrel of his gun firmly in her chest. "Or I will send your sodden soul straight to hell where it belongs."

He is taking his life in his hands and he knows it, for Jote could disembowel him then and there without so much as a second's thought if she so desired. Yet, she refrains, and Balthier likes to pretend it is because she harbors a soft spot for her ailing sister, her past transgressions notwithstanding.

"Be quick about it," she orders, voice laden with the warning of dire consequences. "I will not house this traitor for long."

"Traitor?" Balthier repeats in tones of incredulity, scoffing at the absurdity of her previous declaration. "She left a village, not attacked it. Why you persist with this ludicrous is beyond me. Personally, I think Fran is the most intelligent out of all of you—for she had the gumption to actually take _leave_."

Jote began to smolder in the man's ever audacious wake.

"And what she saw in you will never be evident."

Balthier smiles sardonically. "...and who is the one going out to save her, I wonder?"

The wry man then retracts his weapon in one fluid, practiced motion.

"Now go worship your tree trunk," he scoffs in afterthought, his breath once again labored and strained, for he detested leaving his partner but he detested leaving his partner with Jote even more. Though any abhorrence he harbored for the current situation was increased ten fold by Fran, of this he was sure.

As he swaggers out of the Eruyt village, high on adrenaline and testosterone, he hears the faint resonance of a voice behind him.

"She does not have long."

Balthier turns to see Jote planted behind him, face exuding a sort of forlonging he was not aware Viera were capable of feeling.

"I know," he replies, trepidation radiating off his very words. "I know."

There is nothing more to say. There is nothing more that needs to be said.

With that, he turns and exits the sacred village of the Viera, head uncharacteristically bent down ('...don't ever walk with your head down son, it is unbecoming. And besides, you will run into a great many things that way...') and mouth set in a firm line of resolution.

Jote emits a strangled sigh as his countenance disappears into the Golomore Jungle.

"Foolish hume," she breaths, voice vacant and low like the hallowed out husk of corn. "You can not cheat death."

With that, she resigns to her quarters and tends to her terminally ill sister the rest of the night.

o-o-o-o-o

Author's Note

o-o-o-o-o

Eeep. The prologue is complete! I can't help but feel I could do more with this scene, so much more, so any constructive criticism will earn you a cookie. In fact, any comment whatsoever will earn you a cookie. If you feel the need to specify raisin, chocolate chip, or organic (aka: cardboard) please leave a note attached to your impending review. I will try to comply adequately.

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Dedication

o-o-o-o-o

This should have been stated in the beginning, but oh well, when was I a stickler for conventional means and preordained social norms? In all of my eccentric and erratic behavior, I have decided to put the dedication at the end of this chapter. Does one really have to explain originality nowadays? (Cough. More like forgetfulness. Cough.)

o-o-o-o-supersaiyanprincess-o-o-o-o

This is for you :)


	2. Chapter 2

o-o-o-o-o-o

Chapter Two

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Ashe is not amused.

Not to say the feat happens often, but she has already mentally gone through all seven chapters of 'How Be An Affective Ruler And Govern A Highly Substantial And Democratic Nation' twice, once frontwards, once backwards, and even once in Pig Latin (she contemplates reiterating the aforementioned composition in just plain old Latin but the feat loses its luster after about the third word) and she stops at nothing short of color categorizing her wardrobe before she clears her throat as demurely as she can and opens her mouth to speak.

She is cut off by generic dashing prince number 127, in all of his adulterated charm and nauseating glory, as he pauses mid-sentence, or mid-paragraph, Ashe really can not really be sure which, for she dozed off some twenty minutes ago, and asks if she has something she's like to share.

Yes, Ashe would like to say, despite her mother's painstaking upbringing and unfettered obsession with manners and cordiality. Your face makes my eyes bleed.

But alas, she refrains.

"Do not inquire me as to when you believe I have something I wish to say," the Queen of Dalmasca begins evenly, eyes unwavering and mouth set in its usual line of resolution. "For if I do, perchance, have something of intelligence I desire to share and deem you capable of comprehending, I will do so without hesitation or your permission."

Generic Prince What's-His-Name-The-Third seems taken aback by this preceding dissertation and tries to mask his instinctual balk. It is to no avail, for Ashe sees right through the façade, as she always does, and decides to allow herself the selfish pleasure of watching the man in front of her flounder around for a response.

The shock is etched into his features in the most unforgiving manner, and his face is devoid of all color whatsoever, almost as bland and insipid as the decretive pillow cases adorning the Queen's bed. She derives mirth from such things, for bringing the high and mighty to their knees has never been more intoxicating than when with those of self proclaimed power.

"Forgive me, your graciousness, I was not aware you were so—"

"I am not your graciousness," she snips out in curt fashion, lips curling around the familiarlarity of the aforementioned title. "Nor am I your deity or your liege or your highness or any other ridiculous, frivolous title you wish to bestow upon me. I will not be won over by petty endearments and cheap displays of faux affection. I prefer to be your equal; nothing more, and nothing less. If this is beyond your current capabilities, then I suggest you leave now, for I value my time more than I value your opinion, regardless of the pretenses."

Again; the Prince balks. Only this time he does not recover and remains silent.

"Astonishing," Ashe muses. "I have outwitted you during our first conversation. How terribly boring and predictable our suppertime conversations would be. Well, at least we will not have to sit around and wonder what could have been. I believe that is already fairly evident."

She gets up to make her departure, a flourishing blur of lace and silk and corset.

"I bid thee well, proverbial dashing suitor the fifty eighth. May better luck befall you on your future courting ventures."

She has just about made it through the large double mahogany doors situated on the far side of the sitting parlor—a recent addition to the Palace of Dalmasca—when she heard a voice behind her say, stripped of all previous charm and chivalry, "You mean to tell me that the late Lord Rasler was all of these of these things and more?"

And there is a quake in the air at this. Not because Ashe has cast a spell or a wind has managed to sweep through the courtyard, but rather because anyone with the external genitaltilia to mention her late husband's dignity—it questionable terms at that—did not require the air that was previously defined as quaking to sustain his life any longer.

And that is only because Ashe has all intentions of taking it from him.

She stiffens, and the corresponding tension that follows in the wake of her rigid posture is tangible. Slowly, ever so slowly, she turns to face the prince whose name escapes her at the moment.

"Lord Rasler," she begins, voice fettered with simmering anger that has not yet reached its boiling point, "was twice the man you could ever hope to be."

"If that is the case," the prince continues, oblivious, or perhaps simply indifferent, to the impending danger his life faces at the hand of the Queen, "then why does my lady seem so intent on finding a suitable replacement these last six months?"

There are times when words fail her, and despite all of her mother's lessons and teachings and scoldings, all those hours spent in the garden hashing and rehashing just what it means to be a Lady of Dalmasca, the dire need to rely on physical force as opposed to more diplomatic means is to strong to ignore, regardless of how unbecoming it is or the social repercussions it will most undoubtedly reap.

And so a slap is issued, and it is not as lethal or dire as Ashe had all intentions of making it, but she is locked within the confines of a corset and seven layers of silk, so attacking the fiend that was trying to pass himself off as a man was out of the question. Had she been donning her usual garb, there is no doubt in her mind her Tourendol would have found a new home located directly up her current suitor's ass.

Yes. Ass. Not hind quarters. Not rear. Not butt oxe. _Ass_.

When Ashe gets mad, she swears.

It used to make her mother's toes curl and hair stand on end, and even though the previous Lady of the Court was long deceased and buried some six feet under in a bed of soil and dirt and flowers and neglect, her daughter still utilizes vulgar vernacular to showcase her wrath in times of need. Old habits die hard, and even though she spent over six months along side a knight and a pirate whose crude mollifications were used on a daily basis, not to mention Vaan's lame attempts to act equally as mocho and throw in some heinously butchered oath he negated to execute correctly, she still considered it a great vice to hurl a verbal comment that was despicable enough to send her mother to the bathroom in a mere three seconds flat.

What she did in the bathroom, Ashe never knew, but she'd return from the quarters a ghastly shade of white, saucer eyed, and heavily breathing. Supposingly she'd relieve herself orally, but Ashe was never certain. Though this was the magnitude swearing had when she was growing up. And the connotations she had carried with her well into adulthood.

"I do what I have to in order to serve my country," she spits, words slicing through the air like verbal cyanide about to self detonate. "And romance is a commodity I do not allow myself to long for. _None_ of you will _ever_ compare to Lord Rasler, so I suggest you scamper back to the hell hole of which you came and tell all the other suitors that perhaps they should simply stop _trying_."

If the man had any ready repertoire at hand, it will never be certain, for Ashe spun on her dangerously high heels and marched out of the corresponding room with all the flourish of a long forgotten theatrical street performer. She tries to make it to her quarters, but the endeavor is in vain, and she finds herself mimicking her mother's ritualistic response and dashing to the nearest bathroom she can find.

She stays there for quite some time.

o-o-o-o-o

Ashe is busy rekindling the fireplace when the dead decide to start calling.

Her quarters, while extravagant and lavish and ordained with every luxury any wayward female could ask for, always served as a sort of prison for Ashe, for at every turn was a memory of Rasler, and at every turn was another vacant hallow she would try to fill with some nondescript heirloom that really held no significance to her.

The place now took on the appearance of an Estersand yard sale, as depicted by the nomads Ashe had encountered on her previous journey, for the vicinity was filled to the brim with knick knacks and priceless artifacts imported from the farthest reaches of Ivalice obtainable only by the highest of the mighty. And this was a club Ashe was unwillingly a part of.

Interior décor was not one of Ashe's skills—never was, really—so most of the objects lay strewn haphazardly among the confines, happening to stay wherever they fell upon delivery, for Ashe had no motivation, let alone time, to rearrange them to be aesthetically pleasing.

Though, the more clutter the less space and the less space the less emptiness and the less emptiness the less resuscitated memories.

So the mess she did not mind.

It was preferable, really. Preferable to the alternative of facing what really _was_ lurking in those ominous corners the hearth cast shadows upon at obscene hours of the night.

After the kindling of the fire was done, Ashe wove her way around the plethora of debris that littered her floor, some having been situated there for three months at least, and crawled into her silken bed, complete with an overpowering canopy and a sea of unprecedented pillows Rasler always complained about.

('...how do they expect me to sleep in this? Ashe, I do not believe we can _fit_...')

And the bed. The bed was too big. Monstrous in size, really. And it was like that with two occupants. Now that Ashe was condemned to her own solitary confinement, the mattress felt as though it was its own island in her sea of trinkets she didn't really care about. It was especially difficult to get used to after saving the world, for while campfire evenings were not what the former princess was accustomed to, she valued the importance of being able to hear the steady rhythm of her partners' breathing, for it took the place of Rasler, and now that she was alone again she was forced to face the fact that silence could be so deafeningly loud.

Or perhaps that was the crash originating from her marble balcony.

Perplexed, and almost hoping for a kidnapping of sorts in which she could once again rely on her wits and melee skills to defend herself, she rises from her mountain range of covers to peer through the stain glass windows that are shut against the night, for it was to frigid for her liking during this month. She now desperately wishes that perhaps she had kept the windows open so the intruder would have an easier time of slipping in, for she could not very well defend letting him into the palace, but perhaps _allowing_ him in would be more permissible.

Permissibility be damned. She was lonely. And she could kick rear anyway, so what did it matter if Vayne had reincarnated and was sitting outside her balcony sporting a ten foot wingspan and rippling pectorals? She could handle it. And on the rare account and perhaps she couldn't, at least she would get to be with Rasler again.

Pattering across the sleek marble flooring in bare feet callused from miles upon miles of traveling, she increased her proximity to the windows and undid the solid metal hatch barring her from the outside world.

Flinging open the twin glass sheaths, she bore witness to the night as it greeted her with its icy fingers and frigid breath. She winces upon the initial salutations, but quickly becomes accustomed to the cold, for she _did_ travel up the side of Mt Bur-Omisace in a fuchsia mini skirt she swore was worn for dexterity, and awaited anxiously for whatever the great heavens decided to drop from the sky and deposit at her feet on the floor.

She waits for a moment, and is graced with nothing.

This dismays her greatly.

Her adrenaline is now piqued and she knows sleeping will be an endeavor sought after in vain. Once again she must resign to the clutches of insomnia and find something productive to do with herself besides reminisce and brood.

Perhaps clean that ancient Vierian vase she had situated in the far corners of her room on a pedestal of dust and neglect. It seemed to need a good wiping, now didn't it?

Oh how she longed for a fiend.

Something she could _hit_.

But alas, there was no deadly entourage at her door, and she slinks back to bed, ever so slowly, almost as if waiting for something to pounce her from behind, for at least _that_ would be unexpected.

Nothing came and she doesn't even bother to close the door.

Halfway through her descent to her bed, she hears the noise again, and this time she is certain. She whirls and pounces, almost, to the balcony in anticipation of something, anything, that could be dangerous or perhaps even deadly, and is once again greeted with the visage of nothing.

"Why hello Princess," a voice drawls from the confines of her recently departed room.

At this, Ashe fell over. Unbecoming and unprofessional, but the last thing she expected to hear was something already _inside_ her room when she had scarcely saw it enter or leave.

From her poetically sprawled out position on the floor—ridiculously cold and hard, she dimly notes—she sees the shadows give way to hints of what could only have been a Hume, dressed in a most ridiculous array of melodramatic garb, standing near the recently rekindled fireplace, arm draped haphazardly over the mantle and smirk dancing across his face.

"Hello," she greets, immediately bolting upright and brushing herself off. Never mind she was half naked in her embroidered night gown. She was half naked when she saved the world, too, and that didn't phase her.

"Still not wearing any clothes, I see."

Ashe squints in the uncanny darkness, searching for a more distinct form to help aid her in her quest for identification. The voice. The voice was alarmingly familiar, like syrup and molten hot lava pouring forth from the heavens, yet she had heard so many male voices in the past six months one was hardly distinguishable from the other.

"Have we met?" she queries, inching forward cautiously, trepidation marking her steps. She may be hungering, thirsting, yearning for adventure with every fiber in her body but she is not apt to making careless decisions on a whim. That was more of Vaan's style anyhow.

"I'd like to say so," comes the response, still as haughty as ever.

Ashe looks around her darkened room warily, trying to eye some priceless artifact that could also double over as a blunt weapon of destruction if need be. So far, she remains weaponless in the face of her intruder. Oh well. The guards were at her immediate disposal if need be.

"You may take whatever you like," she offers. "Just refrain from violating me, please."

The shadow laced face scrunches up in disdain. "So _polite_," it mocks, then continues to leer without further movement.

"Are you going to supply me with a name or am I to assume you go by some pathetic attempt at anonyminity?"

"It's subject to change," he offers cryptically. "But then again, so is yours, is it not?"

Ashe pauses.

"Who _are_ you?"

"Do you have a penchant for being benevolent to all thieves, or am I just that damn lucky?" asks the now materializing voice as he steps into the moonshine that pours in from overhead. In the illumination, Ashe feels ice cold water from some unknown source pour down her spine and pool in the pit of her stomach. She can not get her mouth to cooperate. Nothing will come out.

She somehow manages to choke on nothing and answers with an exhalation.

"_Balthier_?"

"In the flesh," he confirms, still audacious and arrogant as ever. Ashe is overcome with the intense desire to _hit_ him. Hard. "I take it you got my note?" he poses, breezing past Ashe with enough nonchalance to stifle lesser men. He was, of course, referring to the one sentence reminder that he was still, indeed, alive after the Bahamut crashed and everyone thought he was at rest with his father. While pleased that one of her comrades was not dead, Ashe was none the less infuriated that Balthier did not deem her important enough for a visit concerning the matter (after all, _she_ had arranged the funeral) and simply dropped a tag off, returned her wedding ring, and then went back to the skies as if nothing had ever transpired between him and...any of them.

Ashe chose to voice her disapproval by slapping him. Twice.

It was the second man she had hit that evening.

"Is that any way to treat the leading man?" Balthier muses out loud, gingerly touching his face where Ashe's palm had left a rather unsightly red mark in its wake.

"Where have you _been_?" she all but screeches, trying not to wake the guards. "It's been...it's been...six months...half a _year_...since that...that _note_ of yours you seem to think serves in the stead of decent conversation!"

"Well when you put it like that."

"You could have at least shown your face!"

Hissing now. It's more apt for the situation.

"So you could slap it again?" Balthier questions. "I think not."

"Well what are you doing here _now_?"

There's a dark cloud that seems to pass over Balthier's usually placid facial features, but it disintegrates before Ashe can catch any real evidence concerning the matter.

"Yes. About that..."

He then characteristically trails off and begins to meander around the room, avoiding the conversation at hand. This further infuriates Ashe, but he is not within her slapping range and she can inflict no further damage without full out _lunging_ for him, and therefore consequently waking _someone_ up.

She fights the urge and waits patiently for the man to continue with his usually convoluted reasoning.

"You're quite a slob, aren't you Princess?" Balthier notes insipidly, which is how he notes all things, now that Ashe thinks about it, and she swallows her bile once again and further digs her nails into her hand.

"I've been busy," she dictates, with utmost professionalism, even though every gene in her body is dying to scream out. "I'm Queen now, you know."

"Tich," Balthier clucks. "Yes, yes. Formalities. I forgot their importance in the aristocracy. Mind terribly if I just call you Amalia?"

"That's not funny."

"You're the one who came up with it," Balthier offers again, spinning a lone globe Ashe had situated behind her walk in closet. It was a gift from some noble of Rozzaria, though she can not remember exactly which. In retrospect, it doesn't matter. But the globe stayed, though Ashe hardly ever used it.

The conversation flat lines, though the sky pirate refuses to find this awkward. He has always been at ease being the center of attention.

"Why are you here?" Ashe finally demands, tired of playing his game and being at his mercy. It was not a position she filled well.

"I require...assistance..." was the explanation. "Piloting assistance, more accurately. And since you seemed to have such an affinity with my ship the first time around, well, I figured perhaps you'd be willing to have me kidnap you once again?"

Ashe stares. "I can't just leave, Balthier. I'm Queen. I'm governing a nation."

"Take a vacation," he responds airily, like responsibility was a burden never thrust upon him. "Lord Larsa does. All the time, in fact."

"Lord Larsa is _twelve_," Ashe reciprocates.

"Yes, well. Age is just a number. Just ask Fran."

"Where _is_ Fran?"

Again; the storm cloud. But it passes. Quicker, this time. Almost as if he is growing used to it.

"Obviously she is not at my disposal or I would not be here bothering you."

The last part was performed with the utmost mockery, but Ashe was more hung up over being a backup as opposed to first choice.

"Nice. And you expect me to just tag along?"

Balthier shrugs mildly. "Actually I was planning on using physical force. But that works too."

Ashe swallows. And isn't this exactly what she had wanted?

"Why me?" Her voice falls upon him like acid rain, but he doesn't so much as wince.

"Because you are the only one I can remotely stand—and I don't like you that much, either."

She sneers. "If you are trying to convince me to go with you, so far you are doing a horrendous job."

"Convincing wasn't an option I planned on pursuing," he admits. "Here, allow me to reword my inquisition. Go or I'll shoot you."

"You won't shoot me."

Balthier, now beginning to show signs of agitation, which is rare, rubs his left temple fervently. "You were not supposed to say that."

Ashe emits a pent up sigh, and in reality she beat Balthier to it because if she had not performed the latter he most certainly would have, and walks over to her canopy bed to mindlessly readjust the vast array of pillows.

"If this is all some elaborate plan you have built up in your mind in a feeble attempt to try and get laid, then I suggest you venture to Bhujerba. They serve your kind there."

Balthier smiles wryly.

"We're at a certain time of the month, I see."

There is a pause in which the air around Ashe quakes again, though this time not as intensely.

"Go to hell."

"Been there, done that, sweetheart. I died for three minutes in the Bahamut, did you know? Hell was hot, but I'm hotter."

"Leave it to you to strike a deal with the devil," Ashe mutters, moving on to the sheets since all the pillows were now decoratively aligned in their proper position. She is at a loss of things to do with her hands, which were itching to migrate to Balthier's neck and correspondingly squeeze.

"Oh no, my dear. I am afraid I did not have the pleasure of meeting Lucifer face to face. Fran bestowed upon me the kiss of life, you see."

"...killing her in the process, I presume."

Balthier seems affronted—well, as affronted as he can _get_—and arches a superior eyebrow. "Such frigidness. Did you and Rasler ever make love?"

A priceless object flew past the sky pirate's head at this moment. He dodges it accordingly.

"Thank the gods you never tried your luck with a cross bow," he notes sourly, which provokes another object and another dodge. After that Ashe has run out of things to hurl.

"Well, alright," he concludes. "Chop, chop. Pack your things. Let's go. My ship is in the areodome. We don't have all day."

He then saunters out onto the balcony.

Ashe is at a loss for words. Nevertheless, she finds them eventually.

"What makes you think I'm _going_?"

She has reverted to hissing once again, given the circumstances.

Something in Balthier's disposition changes at this. His body goes frigid, and he seems to stop breathing momentarily. He turns, ever so slowly, and stares down at Ashe, burning holes into her eyes and he glares the equivalent of whatever he experienced during his three minutes of hell.

"I don't have time for this," he all but growls. For the first time since forever, Ashe is actually afraid. "Fran is dying. I need help piloting my ship. If you don't oblige then I _will_ take appropriate action."

Ashe does not want to question what appropriate action is.

She also does not want to find out.

"That's all you had to say," she replies meekly.

And it was. If she had known Fran's life was on the line she would not have wasted any time in grabbing her sword and her cache of supplies and following Balthier to wherever he needed her to go.

Ashe once made a list of people she would die for. It was short.

Then she made a list of people who would die for her. It was shorter.

She then wordlessly begins to mill about her room and in and out of her closet, wondering why Balthier wasted so much time to _begin_ with, but figures it best if she not ask, and silently dons her melee garb once again, which was forgotten and neglected for so long in the far reaches of her closet, and readies the equipment she longed to use once more but now finds herself not really wanting to.

"Does she have long?" Ashe questions, not minding what was killing her, for in reality it did not matter, the end result would be the same.

"No," Balthier answers. And that is all.

Ashe scribbles a note out hastily and pins it to the pillow of her bed with a stray needle she plucks out of a dress in her closet. Someone would take over. They always did.

"Alright," Ashe concedes, stepping next to Balthier on the balcony. "I'm ready."

And just like that they are off.

o-o-o-o-o

Author's Note

o-o-o-o-o

No, I don't know how they got down off the balcony. I'll leave it to your imagination. I got them up there, you get them down.

Ha. No, in all seriousness, I imagined Balthier scaling the roof or some such nonsense to get around the guards and whatnot. Ashe, fully capable, will probably follow suit and do the same, but I wanted to end the chapter there.

Now would be a perfectly good time to say I am having great difficulty with the present tense of this piece. I should have written it in past tense, but alas, I did not. And now I am suffering the consequences. So forgive any words I accidentally wrote in the wrong tense, present is not my forte and perhaps I should have experimented utilizing it in a one shot as opposed to a twenty chapter epic saga.

Not saying this will be a twenty chapter epic saga. That was a joke. You can laugh now. Or not.

At any rate. Horrah, the second chapter is complete! And I think it is only fair to warn you I am not certain who Balthier will end up with in the end of this. Maybe Fran. Maybe Ashe. (OMGSH: maybe Penelo! No, just kidding.)

So. Yup. Leave reviews if you'd like. They make me squeal in jubilation.

(Squeals for emphasis)


End file.
